It begins like a cold — a few sniffles, a couple sneezes, watery eyes.
It creeps up on me, insidious and silent. It plays with me: first this, then that. Slowly, though, knowing I still believe it is a day like any other. And just when I start to wonder…WHAM! The WORST DAY EVER slaps me upside the head.
It starts with a call the mail-order pharmacy to find out what’s going on with my oldest son’s medication. It should have been here by now. Ron, the customer service rep, says “I’m sorry, there was a mistake. The medication is on back-order and your prescription was cancelled.” What I hear is, “You’ll have to drive 30 miles across town to ask your doctor for a new prescription and mail it in again. You should have it in two weeks. Maybe.”
Then I call the doctor’s office. “I’m sorry,” says the receptionist. “The doctor does not write new prescriptions without an appointment. Controlled substances, you know. He has an opening on Friday afternoon… Oh, you can’t make it because you’ll be two hours away picking up the kid who needs the medication so he can start it during spring break? Yes, I’ll leave a message for the doctor, but I’m not sure when he will call you.”
Then come the body aches.
I hate cooking, but I am determined to make decent, healthy meals for my younger son so he doesn’t have to live on spaghetti for two weeks until my cook…uh, husband…gets back from the other side of the country. Crock pot to the rescue. I made my list this past weekend, went shopping, got everything I needed. I thought. I need to be somewhere in an hour, and now I need to go back to the store. Ok. I can do this. I’m determined to feed my kid. Run to the store. Crap! I need gas ($3.79 a gallon — ugh). Rush home, do the 10-minute prep that really takes 20 minutes. Set the time on the crock pot, make sure it’s on. Rush out the door again. I should only be five minutes late — I can live with that, but this day is on the downhill slide.
And the chills.
I hope the doctor calls about the prescription before I head home, since I am already halfway to his office. But no. It’s becoming clear the day is not going my way and is, in fact, well on its way to being a BAD DAY.
The drippy nose turns into a stuffy nose, the kind where you can’t breathe except through your mouth. The drippy stuff now runs down the back of your throat, your head aches and you are utterly and completely miserable.
I drive home. The wind is whipping up. I can see a dust storm coming in from the west. All of a sudden I hear a helicopter, so loud it’s drowning out NPR on the radio. I think, “Wow, must be a bad dust storm to have the helicopters out.” The sound keeps getting louder, and now the car feels funny. As I take the off-ramp and slow down, the noise slows down. Now, I can hear whopp, whopp, whopp and I think, “You gotta be *****ing me! A flat tire? Really???” I am only a mile from home. My vehicle and I limp along, and I pray I’m not ruining the rim. Could the WORST DAY EVER get any worse? Silly me, of course it could.
Top it all off with a scratchy throat, an earache, and what the heck — throw in a nauseous tummy from all the drippy stuff.
In the driveway, I see the tire is as flat as flat can be. I call my mechanic…uh, husband…who obviously jinxed me by making sure the compact spare was fully inflated before he left yesterday. I listen to concerns about the rim and how far I drove on the flat. I listen to encouragement that changing a tire is not hard and I am fully capable. Like I’m actually going to do that today, on the WORST DAY EVER, and take my own life into my hands. No. I call my brother-in-law, the airplane mechanic, who is currently asleep (he works nights). I am assured he will stop by on his way to work.
As I turn to go into the house, hands full, I drop my keys on the garage floor, where my liquid kaleidoscope keychain thingy that I have had for 20 years promptly breaks in half, spilling red glitter, moons and stars all over the cement — minus the liquid, which finally evaporated a couple months ago.
When I walk into the kitchen, I see the crock pot is off and the chicken is still raw. I unplug it and plug it back in. Nope. Then, I realize the WORST DAY EVER was probably lying in wait for me to leave this morning before gleefully popping off the circuit breaker. I push the reset, and voila, a working crock pot. Now what? Dinner in six hours? Geez. I crank it up to high. Ha! Dinner in 2-1/2 hours. Take that!
My political junkie kid comes home from school, anxiously awaiting the Super-Tuesday results (he believes in keeping an eye on the competition). He flips on the TV, so as I write about the WORST DAY EVER the pundits are droning on and on and on. Someone just shoot me.
The crock pot dings…do I dare get up? What awaits me in the torture chamber that is my kitchen? Will the doctor call tonight? Can my tire be repaired? Do I have enough money to pay for it if it can’t? Will the WORST DAY EVER ever end? …tune in next time…